


i can't even see the stars

by daylightisbreaking (wingless)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casual Sex, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, ah yes 'coping with personal issues using really quality dick' a classic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingless/pseuds/daylightisbreaking
Summary: "Wellhellothere." A deep, resonant voice purrs into your ear, and you are startled out of your thoughts so suddenly that you open your eyes in alarm and jump in a swift and violent motion, your body readying itself for a fight and to protect itself on instinct.But then you turn to the sound of the voice to meet its source, and all these reflexes melt down at the sight in front of you, heart jolting in your chest. There stands, right in front of you, barely a foot away, what's possibly the single most ridiculously attractive person you had ever seen in yourlife.
Relationships: Belial/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	i can't even see the stars

**Author's Note:**

> don't think too hard about this au or setting, it's just an excuse for porn cause i live and breathe for belisan and for some reason out of my 10 million other belisan wips this is the only one i managed to get done so far

Olivia is the only one who notices you carefully slip out of the crowd of the bar right at the peak of celebrations. You're quick on your feet and know how to disappear within the loud rancor and noise, and half of these people are too drunk to notice even if you're within their line of sight. She doesn't do much beyond giving you a single look before returning to conversation with her own companions, and you don't know what to read into her expression. Maybe disappointment, disapproval, reproach, for wasting her efforts in bringing you here. Maybe understanding. Maybe pity. Maybe nothing at all beyond letting you know she's seen you leaving, in case anything happens.

It's amusing. Hysterical, really. The thought of anyone showing concern for your well being, let alone someone as disaffected and withdrawn as her.

You step outside and take a deep whiff of the cold air, finding solace in the refuge from the noise and the light, moving through the street to the nearest alleyway. You can still see the light from within the building peeking through the windows, hear the noise of the music and crowd from the inside, but it's distant, faded. You lean against the alleyway wall, the cold, harsh stone, and let your eyes fall upon the closed, crowded building.

In its own way, the noise and light is comforting like this, from a distance, where it's present enough for you to see and hear but not annoying, or irritating, or alienating. Without you having to be in the middle of it all and present within the crowd of people and feel so potently how much you don't belong, how much you aren't one of them. Here, the dark and cold and silence of the night are comforting, but with an anchor of the living world to keep you from drowning in it.

Reluctantly you find yourself hearing Lucifer in your head, your noble prince, assuring you that it's good that you're not one of them; that of course you don't belong with such a coarse, unsavory group of people. He would say that as if it were obvious, as it is as clear as day that the world you belong to was of nobility, of elegance and status, the same as him. Or would he still, after everything that happened? Everything that you've done? You haven't even seen him since, to get a sense of whether it snapped his eyes open, if his sheltered naivete has been shattered. You hope it did. You hope it's been crushed— that _he's_ been crushed, that he feels guilty, that he feels terrible— and then imagining the expression on his face brings in a stab of pain and guilt alongside the satisfaction.

You hate it. You hate the bitter, bitter thought that he gets to stay oblivious even now, when you had your own naivete crushed from far too early an age, and that the thought of how such a reality check might hurt him still pains you no less. That you both love and hate him still, love him enough not to want it, that you can't hate him _more_ than you love him. You hate the terrible, cold loneliness he has left you with, a feeling caused by his kindly oblivious mishandling of your relationship but amplified tenfold by your separation. You lean your head against the harsh stone, breathe in the cold and the night air, and desperately hope it'll shake you out of it, maybe freeze you to the point where your thoughts and feelings will go as numb as the rest of you.

"Well _hello_ there." A deep, resonant voice purrs into your ear, and you are startled out of your thoughts so suddenly that you open your eyes in alarm and jump in a swift and violent motion, your body readying itself for a fight and to protect itself on instinct.

But then you turn to the sound of the voice to meet its source, and all these reflexes melt down at the sight in front of you, heart jolting in your chest. There stands, right in front of you, barely a foot away, what's possibly the single most ridiculously attractive person you had ever seen in your _life_.

The stranger before you is tall, broad shouldered, stupidly handsome, messy dark hair and sharp, bright eyes that seem to glint in the dark as they bore right into yours. Seemingly unperturbed by your reaction, he meets your tension with an easy smile.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" He takes a step closer to you, presses a hand over you to the alleyway wall, looming over you, and god, god— he's _massive,_ and you don't know if it reality or your just imagination, the aura he gives off, or the fact that he's very, very obviously in his thirties at the very least and _feels_ that way. His pale, smooth skin stands out all the more against the black clothing of very expensive looking fabric, his shirt held together by a single button right below the chest, exposing just enough of a finely sculpted body to make your struggle to keep eye contact all the more difficult.

 _Sweetheart_ , he calls you, as if speaking to a child, and it's the sort of thing that should make your blood boil— should make you want to push him away, to answer him with your fists and with a swift kick to the groin, to tell him to fuck off, him and his patronizing nicknames. But the warmth, the aura radiating off him, the way he _looks_ at you, almost as if right into you, eyeing you up top to bottom— something about it all makes you scramble to obey him and answer instead.

"S... Sandalphon," you manage to squeak out timidly, high-pitched and shaky, and that's when the smell of him hits you, something deep and intense and heady and so potent it makes you dizzy. His eyes run over you, boring into you with an intensity that makes your legs quiver pathetically.

He's nothing like Lucifer. The prince had been the most _beautiful_ person you'd ever seen— and if you're honest with yourself, still is— but that's not quite the right word here. Lucifer was— is— beautiful in an almost ethereal sort of way, something pure, clean, something entirely unsexual. Not that it stopped you, the one on the very opposite end of all that, from wanting him in that way. Or Lucifer himself, from humoring you those desires, indulgent as ever.

This person, on the other hand, is more handsome than beautiful, and easily the single most attractive, most _sensual_ being you'd ever seen. He emanates a sort of raw, undistilled sexual energy that leaves you struggling to breathe— as if it were a perfume or vapor in the air. You want to drop to your knees and beg for his cock. You want him to fuck your mouth with his hand fisted in your hair until your eyes water, to violate you, to use you like a toy. You want him to take you elsewhere and find a hard surface to bend you over and fuck you, want to feel his hands wrapped around your waist as he holds you in place and thrusts in and out of you, or to just take you here, in the darkness of the night of this back alley, against this very wall.

"Sandalphon," he repeats, and hearing your name in that deep, resonant, silky-smooth voice on top of everything else might just kill you. You want to hear that voice whispering filthy words into your as he goes inside you. "What a pretty name. It suits you." A single finger tilts your head upwards by the chin, and lets go just as quickly, but you keep your head where it was. Your whole body trembles, from the tips of your feet to your fingers, your legs just about to give out from under you. His hand runs through your hair, stroking the side of your face. His hands are just as big as the rest of him, but thin and lithe, his fingers long and elegant; you think about how these hands would feel touching you all over, groping you, feeling up every part of you, think of those fingers in your mouth or inside of you.

Christ, you're repressed. You have always been, but at this point it's even worse than with or before Lucifer. It's every secret wish and desire you ever had that he couldn't or wouldn't fulfill, and here, one single man who looks as if he was made for them, like he could star in your darkest, filthiest fantasies that you never wanted to become reality, and are your favorite for it. He's older than Lucifer, too. And surely so much more experienced, and knowledgeable, and— you realize now, an aura of pure, commanding authority, something similar to what Lucifer had and yet entirely different.

"My name's Belial, by the way. So, tell me, little Sandy," He says, and it takes you a minute to register that he gave you a nickname within seconds of meeting— "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this? This isn't a bar for cute, innocent virgins to go looking for some easy fun, you know. There's a lot of dangerous, bad, _bad_ men here— lurking around every corner. And you—" His lips stretch from ear to ear, much less a smile, now, than it is a shameless leer. "—Are exactly the kind of prey they look for."

Now: you're really, really not stupid enough not to recognize what this expression means. It's a very particular kind of leer that belongs to real perverts. Less the kind of dangerous, violent criminals he describes that you fought off and nearly killed a few times when in prison, and more the kind of thirty to forty somethings who go after young, innocent, barely legal ingenues and seduce them into their beds. Young and naive virgins eager to experience sex and the adult world for the first time, responsive to more experienced partners, possibly looking for parental and authority figures to fill in a particular void in their lives but unaware of it— easy to take advantage of for all these reasons.

Out of all these things, only the virgin part can really be said to apply to you to some degree. But even without him saying so, you know you look like the very picture of pure, shy naivete. Maybe you were, once, but that Sandalphon is long gone. And it should be repulsive, at least; to see so blatantly the kind of person this man is, who's trying to pick you up. This man probably not old enough to be a parent, but definitely too old to go around hitting on you. It should be terrifying, disgusting, humiliating. You should be wanting to say no, and anxious that he might not take it for an answer, anxious of what he might do if your refuse, thinking of how to get away. That's what a sensible person, a good person, would do.

But of course, you're not, are you? Instead you're excited, and desperate, and so aroused just by his very presence. Of course you are. You _would_ be, instead of reacting like any normal person would, and all just because he's tall, and big, and so, _so_ attractive, and the star of every one of your favorite fantasies. And the feeling of being leered at, being sized up like a piece of meat as his eyes run you up and down, feeling lusted after and so blatantly desired— it's so different, and so damn intoxicating. You're one more touch, one more vulgar word into your ear, one more lecherous, sickly sweet compliment away from turning around and presenting your ass to him, legs spread in invitation, right here and now like a whore.

What is so wrong with you, with your body that so constantly wants to be fucked and used, with your head that can't take control over your overactive libido, with all of you, reacting like this to some pervert you only just met?

"I feel like," you find it in yourself to answer, slowly, "You may have a bit of a wrong impression of me."

"Now why do you say that?"

"I'm not..." An eternity seems to pass before you manage to get the words out. "'Innocent' is the wrong word."

"Oh?" The disappointment you expect doesn't come; instead, he moves in closer, until you feel his warm breath tickling your skin just so, a pleasant sensation that contrasts the biting cold the night air. " _Fascinating._ Do you want to tell me more, or should I figure it out myself? I like a puzzle." He eyes you up like a one now, less of a leer, more of a genuine interest in a riddle, as if he can figure out the deepest depths of your soul just by looking, the way he could put together a picture's scattered pieces. "Definitely a virgin, so it's not that. Hmm, hmm..."

You don't want to be the one to say it, but you also have no patience for this. Not in your current state, in your desperation— if your true nature will put him off, then you want to get it over with before you can get too invested in the prospect of what he might offer you. "I'm saying that I'm a criminal."

Belial blinks once, a shadow of a surprise expression passing over his face, just barely lasting enough for you to catch sight of it. Then he throws his head back and bursts into laughter, deep and rich, his whole, handsome body shaking with it. "No _way_! Seriously? _You_? Oh, don't sulk. You should take it as a compliment that I didn't expect that from you! But if you think that makes me less interested, well..." His voice lowers, and he leans in close to you again, so, _so_ close— his smell overpowers all your senses and makes your head short-circuit, his lips just shy of pressing against your ear. "Knowing you have this dangerous side to you beneath that innocent, pretty face... it just makes me want you _more_ , you know?"

Your heart, already beating intensely, nearly bursts out of your chest, to hear him say it like that. You stutter something incomprehensible before you just barely manage to regain enough control to squeak out a pathetic, "R-really?"

"Oh _yes_. And I'm getting the impression you're not exactly feeling indifferent towards me either. Am I right?"

Still trembling, still pathetic as ever, you manage, again, to answer: "Y... you are."

"Wonderful." A deep purr that reverberates through your entire body. "Now, here's what I'd like to do. I'd like to hop on my motorcycle with you and take you to my apartment. Then I'd like to lay you down and spread you on my bed, and take my sweet time with you until you're all nice and pliant and ready for me. And then I’d like to fuck your brains out." Your heart might just burst right out of your chest. "How does that sound, Sandy? Would you like that?"

"I..." It sounds like absolute _heaven_. You've never wanted anything more. It feels as if every cell in your body is screaming _yes,_ begging in a way you struggle to do with your own words. "... I would."

"Perfect." He stands up straight again, his smile pleased and smug. "Come with me."

* * *

The ride to his apartment seems to last both too long and pass to quickly. He tells you _hold on to me_ , and seeing no other option, you cling to him through it all. Occasionally Belial begins to ramble and chat about small, inconsequential things, make small talk, to which you only give mumbling half answers or stay silent, unsure how to talk with him or interact with him as if this were a normal conversation. Having your face almost buried in his massive, broad back, your arms wrapped around his waist, smelling the leather of his jacket and his own natural musk and cologne, it's easy to get distracted and excited again, buried in the thrill of anticipation.

But your cautious mind is quick to take in other things— warnings, questions. To remind you who you're going home with, that this may well be a bad idea. That he might be dangerous, reminds you, again, that he has at least ten years on you, that no one trustworthy acts or talks like this or picks up younger people in back alleys. That if he's not a violent criminal looking for prey, the best case scenario is you waking up to him telling you to leave. That whatever warmth and respite from memories and thoughts of Lucifer you'll find in those arms is not going to last until tomorrow, that the cold you'll be left with might feel even colder.

You don't fear him. If you're going home with a serial killer or something, or anything more dangerous than just a much older man and probable pervert, you know how to take care of yourself, and protect yourself. You've fought off men much worse, in much more difficult conditions; put fear in the hearts of men who were themselves feared. With the way you have stained your hands even before prison, with what you've done to protect yourself in it, you're more of a danger yourself than someone who gets to fear danger from others.

For the other matter, you have no argument. You can only accept this as something for you to deal with in the morning, or in the future. What he offers you now may be temporary, but too valuable to miss out on. And— yes, you're so very pent up, and so badly repressed, and haven't had a decent orgasm from anything but your own hand in a long time, maybe even never have. How could anyone possibly pass by an opportunity like this?

His apartment doesn't look like it belongs to a serial killer, at least. It doesn't even look like it belongs to someone whose clothing is as expensive his— an average building, in an average neighborhood, neither the world of luxury and riches you were part of for so long, nor the dirty underworld you were born in and have come back to. Inside, it's decently small— he clearly lives alone— well-kept, clean, but without the sort of eerie, perfect sterility you've so often witnessed in the palace. It's warm. Pleasantly so, not stifling but just enough to be heavenly to your body that's gotten so used to sleeping in the cold. You don't get much of a chance to look around or take it in further, get a sense of his occupation or any more information about him; as soon as you enter, he locks the door behind you, turns on a single light, then grabs you by the shoulder and slams your back against the nearest wall.

It's sudden more than it is painful— surprising you, and when you look up, before you know it, he's shoving his knee between your legs, spreading it apart, mirroring your position from earlier when he presses his hand against the wall. You meet his eye, anticipating, breathing in the air, the smell of him that permeates the whole apartment, heart throbbing madly in your chest.

He drags in the moment, simply eyeing you up, watching you, a predatory hunger in his eyes, in the way he looks you up and down again in the light instead of the darkness of the evening— a small, pleased smile as if he likes what he sees even better now that he can see you clearly. Then, with no warning, he finally leans down and presses his mouth to yours.

It's a hungry kiss, fervent, relentless. Lucifer's kisses were slow, never hesitant but always careful, always so chaste. This one is all teeth and tongue, wet, slippery, and it's so, so good. He tastes good, too, and it makes you feel bold; when he slips his tongue in deeper you put your lips around him and suck it, drawing out a pleased hum.

"Hm, you're pretty good at this." he says as he parts from your lips. "Not your first kiss, I take it." You shake your head, timidly. "Wasn't wrong about you being a virgin, though, was I?"

"No. Mostly." You look away and fiddle with your hands. "I've done... some things before, but I've never, um—" You hate how much talking about it makes your face burn, how hard it is to say compared to how easily it's all in your head. "You know... gone all the way."

"That cute ass of yours has never taken it in? Eh, close enough. I'll have to be gentle with you, then, and take it a little slower." He presses a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "Well then, right now, why don't you start by showing me what you _do_ know?"

It's an intimidating prospect on the one hand, yet also comforting in its own way on the other. You would like to think that's his intention— to ease you into it, alleviate some of your tension and anxiety about your inexperience by starting out where you're comfortable. False gesture or not, it's working. You swallow the words down into your throat. "Okay."

The momentum has you temporarily feeling bold, and without thinking, you press your palm right against the bulge in his pants. Instantly, you feel the shape of him—oh, he's _big,_ as you had thought— the heat, even through the layers of fabric. The sensation makes your throat go dry. Avoiding his eyes, you think back to how you used to do this for Lucifer— it feels like it's been so long. You take it slow, stroking the bulge with your fingers in the lightest caress, then pressing a little harder, your touch growing more insistent, stroking him, rubbing him through the cloth up and down, fingers pressing closer around all the spots you know to be sensitive.

This act in its own way feels like a form of submission, a service. You hated that about doing it for Lucifer, hated that feeling, hated the way he acted like he was doing you a favor by letting you get him off, hated how potently you felt like his servant, his concubine, his inferior in every aspect for your lives. You hated that he seemed unable to understand it, and hated yourself because you couldn't seem to articulate it in a way that he could understand.

But now, and here—

When you eyes rise to catch Belial's gaze, he is staring into you intently, eyes dark with arousal, but the slightest glint around them that gives his little smile an edge of what may be either amusement or satisfaction. Just then, as you begin to doubt yourself, a deep, pleased rumble comes out of him that you feel from the tips of your fingers all the way up to between your own legs, and that makes you decide it's time to switch gears. You drop to your knees— perfectly on eye level with the ever expanding bulge in his pants, take a deep breath, unzip his pants and pull out his cock from between his underwear. Seeing the full size of it makes you draw in a breath, anxiety and arousal rising in you at once at the thought of putting it into your mouth, or inside of you.

With this man, with this overwhelmingly attractive stranger, the sense of service, of submission— it becomes part of the thrill. Perhaps that's what he wants out of you, and you are happy to relinquish yourself to it.

And so, eyes squeezed shut, you slide him into your mouth.

Immediately the taste and smell of him becomes your world, the sensation of his massive thickness in your mouth. It's difficult, it strains your throat a bit, doing your best to keep your teeth out of the way— it's hard to reach all the way to your throat, so you settle for sliding him in slowly as far as you can without hitting your gag reflex. He seems to notice your discomfort, and soothingly runs his head through your hair, patting your head, shushing you gently with _slowly, carefully, don't force yourself_.

Kind, indulgent, really. Condescending, or considerate? Is your lifelong distrust of everyone around you, etched into you from childhood, from all life experiences, your habit of analyzing and seeing only the worst, the dangers, getting to you? Or is it for once an entirely accurate assessment, an instinct— things you notice subconsciously telling you of his character, and on the conscious level, without awareness, become a simple _feeling_? You don't know. You don't know if it matters, because it still feels good, and satisfying, the taste of him, the feeling that comes with circling your tongue around him, the hand in your hair.

So occupied are you and focused on this task that you're almost deaf to the world and all else— almost miss out the way his breathing grows heavier, louder, the way gasps and moans begin to draw out of his throat. It's encouraging, and strangely, relaxes some of your tension, almost comforting to know you're succeeding in bringing him to this point, giving you some sense of control in the situation. You feel confident enough take him further in— it stretches the limit of your throat a little, but still bearable— quickening your tongue's circling around the shaft, sucking and sucking, forgoing your hesitation at the noises your mouth makes at the movements, and with it, his reactions intensify too.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, _very_ good, Sandy, that's— _ah_ — very, very nice— yes, just like that, good, _wonderful_ —" He cuts himself off with a low groan, a twitch that runs through his whole body. "Ah..."

The praise goes straight to your cock, makes you press your thighs together, your toes curling in your boots. You want more. You need to hear more of it. You tilt your head to the side to try to find the right angle from which you can take him in deeper, try to draw in more of that noise, further, higher, more. Only the barely suppressed memory of the humiliation of the last time you tried to deepthroat and pushed yourself too far stops you from taking him all the way in.

"I'm close— just a bit more like that—" he warns, or you assume it's a warning, and in response you hollow your checks and press your lips tighter around him, urging him on, anticipation and the thought of how he'll react to you swallowing it all up spurring you on further. Long fingers come to dig into your hair, pressing into your scalp, tugging and holding on to your hair, both hands from each sides, and the pain of it makes you hum pleasantly around the base— and a second later his come is bursting from the tip into your mouth, right into your throat, and he's gasping, moaning, pulling and tugging harder, tighter— you struggle to keep up with every surge of liquid, to gulp it down in time, face heating up and little drops of tears rolling lightly down at the effort as you inhale harshly through your nose in desperation for air.

Finally, when the onslaught on your throat ends, when his heavy, wheezy panting subsides, you pull away for him, inhaling in all the air you can finally have in deep breaths. When you look up, Belial has a soft flush on his cheeks, a thin layer of sweat rolling down his brow, and it looks really, really good on him, but otherwise still immaculate, not even disheveled. But the expression on his face, his hazy eyes, his heavy breaths, and knowing you caused it, it's still more than enough to make it worth it.

"Did you swallow it all down?" He asks in a breathy voice, and you answer with a flustered nod. "Show me. Open wide." He says it in a playful, sing-song tone, like a doctor coaxing a nervous child patient, but the way he presses his thumb to your bottom lip right between your teeth is anything but. And you obey without thinking, opening your mouth wide and exposing your raw-red throat. Belial whistles: "Would you _look_ at that. I'd have been fine with you spitting it out, but you swallowed it all down like a champ without me even needing to tell you to. What a good boy."

The praise goes straight into all your weak points, makes your heart jump and pulsate, makes you press your thighs firmly together in desperation and arousal, but it's so forward and blunt a statement that embarrassment takes over both; your face heats up all the way to your ears, and unable to face him or find it in yourself in to answer, you can only look away and turn your head to the side when he lets go.

A hand comes down on top your head, running through your hair, smoothing it over. "Getting both embarrassed and turned on by praise— you really are just too cute, Sandy. Alrighty, think it's time I took you to my bed."

Then before you know it, his big hands are around you, his long, powerful arms beneath you, scooping you up from the ground effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all— before you know it, you're being held up by him in the air, one arm supporting your back, the other beneath your legs and— is he _bridal carrying_ you?

Before you know it, you're spitting out "Seriously?" with an equally baffled expression, and Belial snorts— "I'm sure you can walk by yourself, but this is much more fun, don't you think?" Then breathes right into your ear: "Besides, you did _such_ a good job sucking me off, I can't help wanting to reward you."

You're so taken off=guard by it then that you can't help it— the shudder that runs through your whole body, head to toe, the way it twitches and you instinctively curl in on yourself away from him, hiding your again reddening face, trying to squeeze your thighs together so as to not let him see the erection straining your own clothing, bafflement forgotten, painfully aware that he must be able to see all of it, feel every reaction where he holds you in his arms. He laughs again as he walks, a downright musical, rich sound, taking you through the apartment that suddenly feels so much warmer then it did when you came in.

"Just look at you. So desperate, so responsive... you're like a little abandoned stray, all twitchy after being mistreated by its previous owners. Almost makes me doubt what you said about yourself if I didn't know you have no reason to lie. Whoever it is that you used to get off with that pretty mouth and hands must have been a real piece of work, hm?"

You stiffen up— and think first, that you regret letting your reaction show, because it's just confirmation, and second that you hate how right the comparison feels, but where did he even get all that? How does he know? How can he tell? And— wait, no, more than that—

"No, he wasn't." Something about having anyone but you insult Lucifer, or even say anything at all about him, much less hearing it from a stranger who knows nothing about either of you, makes you instinctively aggressive and defensive. You force yourself to calm down before you ruin the mood. "He wasn't.... he wasn't cruel, or a bad person, if that's what you're implying."

"Doesn't have to be, to mistreat you."

"I'm saying he didn't hurt me or do anything bad to me. It wasn't like that."

The room he enters then must be his bedroom— on the messy and disorganized side in a way you can recognize, without being excessively so. His bed is big, though, wider than him, a double bed— he must bring people home like this all the time. A reminder not to get too attached.

"Can't have been a very good partner either way. I can tell." He says. "Didn't even fuck you, did he? Bet he didn't even get you off, and after you so kindly did it for him, too."

"You don't know what you're talking about," you snipe back. He doesn't, surely, and yet it feels like you're so transparent to him that he may as well read your mind. He raises a single amused eyebrow, like he sees even that very thought, just by looking at you, but says nothing as he carries you to the bed.

"Regardless. I think it's time we fix that, don't you think?"

And then he unceremoniously throws you right onto the sheets. You panic only briefly before you're landing right on your back, into the sheets- and by the time the back of your head hits the pillows you realize that you haven't slammed anything against the headboard or fallen off to the floor or anything that inspired your initial panic, the bed is big enough to contain several of you, and more than anything else, the sheets are _so_ soft and clean that you feel like your very presence might taint them, and so warm, and all of it smells like him, and when was the last time you even touched sheets this clean or felt pillows this soft, a bed that's not cold and unpleasant and with no hard metal against your back and limbs? When was the last time you even slept in a bed since getting out?

The anticipation still has you tense, but you let your body sink into the soft mattress, relish the heavenly sensation of it. It's going to make going back to normal all the harder afterwards— all of it. Having a soft mattress against your back, having real human contact, being really looked at, really paid attention to, being touched, being in a pleasantly warm, homely apartment, being in the world of _normal_ people. So for now you just enjoy it and relish it while it lasts. The mattress dips when Belial plants a knee it, and he climbs on top of the bed— you only then noticed he's zipped himself back up— and practically crawls on all fours towards you, long, powerful limbs surrounding you, trapping you.

You can't hold back from swallowing down at the sight of him. His eyes follow the movement of your throat. The hunger in his expression far beyond anything he's shown up until now— it's raw, primal, untamed, the way he looks at you as if you were his last meal, as if he's about to savor every bite of you, more predatory than ever, something animalistic and wolfish to it. You're a piece of meat he's going to sink his teeth into.

And you _want_ him to.

In spite of what he said back in that alleyway, you expect him to strip you, to prepare himself and slide right back inside you, barely any foreplay, no patience. And yet the first thing he does upon reaching you is press his lips to your against his again. The kiss this time is slower, longer, not as heated, and his hands run up and down your body all the while. Up your legs to your thighs, to your hips and waist, alternating between shameless groping and fondling and gentle, soothing strokes, until finally he reaches and does the same to your chest. You're not sure why he bothers— there's not much to grope there— until his fingers brush over your nipples through the cloth and the intensity of the sensation makes you jolt in surprise, eyes widening with a small gasp.

"These cute little ones are pretty sensitive, hm? Bet you'd never had anyone touch them before." Belial hikes up your shirt up to your collarbones, exposing your bare torso to the warm air of the bedroom, and hums to himself, clearly pleased. It makes your face burn for him to speak so shamefully, but the rush of having your body exposed and for him to look at it like _that_ — the way he so clearly likes what he's seeing— "Say, what kind of criminal are you, anyway?"

—What? Oh, come _on!_ Is he seriously going to do this _now_ when you're finally getting to the good part? You groan in frustration and, unable to rein yourself in, snap at him. "What does it _matter_? When will you get to it already?"

"I can't help being curious about you. Have you ever even been in prison? Doubt it, if you're still a virgin."

"Oh for... ugh. _Yes_ , I have." Quite recently, as it happens, and the reason you were never at risk of assault is something he doesn't need to know. "If you _must_ know, I broke out. Anyway, what does it matter? Are you going to report me to the authorities?"

"Nah." His hands are finally back at you, stroking your bare skin, creeping upwards. "Do I look like a morally upstanding citizen to you?"

His fingers give your nipple a harsh tug that makes you hiss in pleasure, and it takes you another moment to regain your voice: "To me, you look like a creepy, disgusting pervert who likes much younger men, but there's— ah!" Belial curls two fingers around your other nipple, twisting them both at once, and it makes your whole body jolt and twitch in place, your cock twitching and throbbing. "T-there's a big leap between that and downright breaking the law."

"Haha! _That's_ how you see me? Eh, I'll take it. It means you're not as naive as you look, and 'sides, I've been called worse." Belial keeps going on conversationally as his hands continue to work over your chest, flicking the nubs from side to side, tugging and pulling and circling with an expert hand; you're unable to hold in the litany of gaps every motion and touch draws out of you, the way the assault of stimulation makes you dizzy and breathless, but he does it without a care in the world, as casual and as idle as can be. "Didn't stop you from coming home with me or sucking me off so enthusiastically, though."

"Because I don't care." You manage to wring out a breathless reply. "So will you shut up and fuck me already?"

He chuckles, eyes glittering with amusement. "Patience. I'm glad that you're so eager to get properly deflowered, but I told you I'd take my sweet time, right? I want to play with you properly." His hands release and the absence of stimulation brings in relief and disappointment at once. Instead he caresses the bare skin of your upper body, light, teasing strokes that bring in little shivers down your spine. Those hands travel upwards, across the bundle of cloth across your collar, to your jaw, beneath your hair, taking your blushing-red ear into his hand and pressing with a gentle force, pinching the earlobe, stroking and pressing his thumb into the shell, and then he leans in close and gives the same treatment to your other ear with his teeth and tongue.

Warmth floods into your body and limbs, throbbing, pumping blood throughout your body that's already so awake and excitable, ready and eager and impatient for the fucking you've been longing for, the smell of his air so close again, the sultry-slick sound of his mouth and of his hands' ministrations from both of your sides closing in on your senses, overwhelming you, becoming your whole world. His hand releases your ear and you have no time to be frustrated before it presses into the flesh of your neck and nape instead, massaging away years and years of tension and knots, sending shivers down across your body, tremors down your throbbing thighs, soothing yet firm at once. You let out a low content sigh, relaxing into the sensation of it.

It's satisfying enough to keep you gratified even when he pulls away, tugging at the bunched up cloth of your short to pull it over your head and limbs. You comply, putting your arms up when he peels it off to ease the process for him, releasing a breath when it's finally pulled off, and the very next second his mouth is at your neck, a delicate kiss preceding the harsher, blunt sharpness of teeth sinking into it— it's careful, just a bit painful enough to feel good, feel right, but draws in a bit of panic that comes out as a hissed demand:

"I swear, if you leave a hickey there I'll—" you cut yourself off around a gasp. His fingers tease a nipple again before coming to rest on the other side of your neck.

You feel a low, rumbling chuckle against your nape. "Don't you want me to? Doesn't the thought of being all marked up get you all hot and bothered?"

"Don't mistake me for yourself." You say that, but can't deny to yourself that it _is_ an exciting thought— more importantly, though, you don't want to go back to the others and to have to deal with questions or commentary; being fellow escaped inmates doesn't exactly make you friends, or give you much of a deep relationship, but you've managed to blend in with the group without attracting too much attention to yourself. The current weather means you won't have problem finding the right clothing, at least, so... "If you _must_ do this, leave them somewhere I can cover up."

"Yessir." He answers you in a low, amused rumble before his mouth become occupied again; leaving biting kisses across your collar, lower, down to your nape, the space between neck and shoulder; the onslaught brings out a low hiss and you instinctively grasp onto his broad back, fisting a hand into his shirt as your gasp at every sensation, the sounds grow quicker, heavier, louder.

Finally he pulls away, wiping away the spit from his mouth, looking quite satisfied with his handiwork; the throb and pump of blood concentrates around your neck; you feel the pulsing sensations of the aftermath in spots across your neck and nap, running your hands across them, feeling some of the bite marks in fascination, and are startled when you feel hands around your ankle. When you look back at him, he's using his hold on them to bending your leg upwards and slipping off your shoe— you start to get more than a little self-conscious over the fact that they're not exactly clean, given where you hang around, and yet he doesn't seem to mind at all, sending a wink your way as he takes it off and gives the same treatment to your other leg, after which he drops both shoes carefully on to the floor, stealing a light kiss on to the knuckle when he does. The gesture is downright gentlemanly in a way that makes you frown at him in confusion.

"And here I thought I was seeing things, but you really are just wearing leggings for pants." He hums as he strokes the top of your socked foot in a soothing massage. "But it's a good choice. I can respect wanting to show off the goods, and you've got the most gorgeous pair of legs I've ever seen. Looks quite nice on those dainty little feet, too." He presses another kiss where his hands have just been, almost reverent, and you roll your eyes despite the way it makes your face heat up all over again. "But it's about time I've seen all of you."

He moves closer, bending up both your legs to lean on to him, reaches into your waistband, and— before you realize he's reached for both the leggings and your underwear at once, begins to roll them upwards off you the same way as before, exposing more and more of your bare body every second, freeing your cock from its confines, standing at attention full and dripping. His eyes run over and seem to eat up every slowly exposed inch, making low crooning sounds until he finally slips off the leggings entirely, leaving you exposed and bare to his eyes.

And he sits back again, and lets out a small, reverent breath, sitting there in silence for a moment and simply taking in the sight of you, eyes running you up and down all over again. "Oh, _look_ at that. Just lovely. You're a sight for sore eyes, Sandy." The tips of his fingers run down the front of your chest and navel, teasing. "To get to see this, to get to be the one to fuck you for the first time... aren't I just the luckiest man in the world?"

You grit your teeth despite the way every cell in your body lights up in happiness at the praise even as its bluntness flusters you. "You really like hearing yourself talk, don't you? Are you going to ever get to the important part or will you just spend all night making me listen to your nonsense?"

"You _like_ my nonsense. You can't get enough." His eyes come down between your legs. "Your body definitely isn't complaining. Especially not when I praise you. Would you rather I be mean instead? Maybe you'd like that too."

"What I would _like,_ " You grab at his wrist and pull it towards you forcefully, before you can fall into the danger of seriously considering the question. "is for you to get to the damn _point_ already."

Belial doesn't fight off the grip, which only makes you more self-conscious that there wasn't really point to the gesture, so you ned up somewhat uselessly and aimlessly holding him in place. He bows his head with a small laugh. "You were so adorably shy when I first saw you back there, but it turns out you're quite a feisty little kitten once you've been brought out of your shell, hm? I like that." His free hand runs up and down your thigh, the appraising though leaving shivers and trembles in its wake. "The more I discover about you the more I like you. What a shame would it be for this to stay a one night stand."

Then he steps off the bed, letting your bare legs drop into the sheets. You try to calm down your heart after it's jumped in place again— hope, anticipation, happiness, fear, all at once— trying to convince yourself _it means nothing, don't read so much into it,_ reminding yourself that you know how easily you get attached, what happened the last time you got so invested in someone just because they gave you kindness and affection. If Lucifer never saw you as an equal because of your differences in station, then what better is this man who must see you as even less? Who surely sees you as nothing less than a fun toy? How ridiculous, how foolish, how embarrassing would it be to get attached and go through that all over again?

While you stew in your feelings and thoughts, you absently watch as Belial scoops up your clothing, folds it up neatly and places it on top of a drawer. The sight of it is so bizarrely domestic that you can't help but eye him with skepticism, and he looks back at you innocently, brows raised with a downright angelic smile, as if to say _What?_ Then he opens the drawer and pulls out a clear bottle of liquid that makes his smile turn significantly less innocent.

In spite of your insistence and agitation with his slowness, the realization that you're finally getting to this point makes your nerves rise up. _This_ part is almost entirely new, and this part is where you can only rely on his experience. Shameful, panicky thoughts of embarrassing yourself, of doing something wrong, of being unable to live up to whatever expectations you might have given him rise up in you. As if he sees them as clearly is if they were right here in front of him, Belial asks, "Nervous? Can't help it, since it's your first time." He opens up the bottle, smearing his fingers in the liquid. "Just trust me. You're going to be having _so_ much fun."

To quell your anxiety, you focus on something else: "Aren't you going to take your clothes off? Surely it isn't very comfortable to do it fully dressed." Although the difference between you two, here and now— you fully exposed and bare, him fully clothed and even still wearing his shoes— the way it only highlights his air of authority and power, the way it makes something deep within you throb in enthusiasm, the way the thought goes straight to your cock, it's not a wholly bad thing.

"In a minute." Belial climbs back onto the bed (you briefly glance down behind him— and yes, _still_ wearing his shoes). "First, I want to play with you a bit more. Spread those pretty legs for your Daddy."

Caught between having to look him in the eye and having to look down at yourself, you press your lips tightly. "I have no intention of _ever_ calling you that, so you can drop it." And do as he says, focusing in some point beneath his eyeline— and getting distracted by the way his shirt tightly hugs and emphasizes every line of his body, the exposed skin of his chest.

A single finger presses right onto your hole— somewhat cold with lubricant, but doesn't go inside you, not yet, simply circling it, smearing more of it around you, just a little bit within the entrance without going all the way in. The foreign sensation makes you freeze on the spot— with tension, as well as fascination with the way it feels. "Never say never." And with nothing else to warn you, slips a finger right inside of you.

The suddenness of the intrusion makes you wince and shudder; Belial goes in deeper gradually, gives you time to adjust. You catch him watching you intently, eyes going between your face and the finger gradually making its way inside of you, and swallow around a lump in your throat. He's attentive, careful, almost— almost _considerate_ —

"You doing good?" His voice is even, calm, perfectly neutral. You think about it for a second— it's an odd sensation, but hardly a bad one— and nod. "I'm putting in another one, alright, sweetheart?"

The voice he says _that_ it in much lower, but warmer, almost caring, and this time the nickname only excites you and pulls further at your arousal, spurring it on. You've jerked off to the thought of being called every horrible, ugly name there could be, being insulted in every creative way you can think of, and yet in reality that lightest kindness and warmth spurns you on.

"Okay." It comes out in the voice you hate most; timid, nervous, weak. The way he smiles at you then is kind and indulgent again before another finger is slipping inside you, and with it— the first one goes deeper. Any discomfort is alleviated by the lubricant, and it's not quite pleasurable yet but not unpleasant— there's something satisfying about the sensation of it, something that makes you close your eyes so you can focus on it, examine the way you feel your own insides tighten around the fingers, the way the fluid makes the movement inside you silky-smooth.

Then Belial starts to move them, curling them inside you, and with a gasp and a little cry of "Oh!", your mind goes wonderfully, blissfully blank. He starts slow and careful and picks up speed and intensity, circling within you, flicking back and forth, but every bit of it is smooth, pointed, deliberate— touching upon and hitting spots inside you that you didn't think could be there, didn't imagine could possibly feel _this_ good— your limbs and legs flailing in place, moving towards each other on instinct, and when he unceremoniously slides in a third one and picks up the speed yet another notch, you cry around a moan, feeling the peak of pleasure coming closer to the horizon—

And then it stops, and the fingers slide out, with you empty again, and before you can stop yourself, a frustrated cry breaks out of you. "D-don't stop!" In your head it's meant to be a demand, but it comes out desperate, a high, needy whine. You don't want to open your eyes, don't want see him, don't want to meet his expression, but you do feel a different, still-dry pair of fingers pressing into your hair, brushing it out of your face, and hear his voice tinged with amusement:

"I can't have you finishing up before we get to the really important part, now can I?" He steals another quick kiss to your neck, his dry hand back to stroking at your thigh— gentle at first, then pressing deeper, more insistent as it moves lower to your inner thigh, just a little bit within the radius of the throbbing pumping heat radiating through every inch of you. "So smooth and soft... ah, to be young. You'd look good with hickeys here, too. Normally I'd take my time with working over these and marking you up, but you're just so alluring that I'm getting impatient too." Teasing, yet gentle. Playfully lecherous, but not cruel. The ever mistrusting, ever suspicious voice calling from deep in your heart hasn't quieted, but it's calmer, softer, as if it's been subdued, or maybe because it, too, is simply tired out, happy to give in for just a moment.

When you open your eyes, Belial is finally taking off his clothes, opening up his belts in an manner almost hurried, letting them drop to the floor, unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his full, muscular body, broad shoulders, his chest, and—and just the sight of him makes you heat up and you feel ridiculous and inadequate next to him, ridiculous at being called _alluring_ when you have him right in front of you, and you need to look away instantly.

"It's fine, you can keep ogling me, I love it. I know how hard it is to resist."

—And then you turn your head right back to him, to meet his smug expression with incredulity.

"...You really have no shame, do you?"

"And I think you have a little too much for your own good." His pants drop down his legs, revealing smooth but muscular thighs, a tent in his underwear with a wet spot at the tip. It suddenly occurs to you— did _you_ cause that? Through not even touching him yourself, through simply having him touch you, through your reactions to his touch? "We're quite a complimentary pair, aren't we? Balancing each other out."

He peels off his own clothing entirely, drops them next to yours, much less neatly, not bothering to fold the,. You don't have time to consider that, being greeted again by the sight of his fully hard cock— just a little while ago you had it in your mouth, but you can't help swallowing around a lump in your throat at the sight of it again, the thought of having that inside you. He picks up the bottle again and pours the lubricant into his palm, wrapping his hand around the thick, throbbing organ and slicking himself up, making a small, breathy, satisfied noise as he does.

Seemingly content with his work, he drags himself across the bed closer towards you until he looms above you, planting both his hands by the sides of your face, straddling you with all his limbs— caging you in, the lean, elegant bulk of his body blocking the lights from view. When you look back up to face him, meeting his eye, you are struck by the way he looks like this, in shadow, framed by light around him— the way his eyes still seem to gleam all over again as they run your exposed form all over.

It spurns in both apprehension and excited anticipation within you at once, and you draw in a sharp breath. You want him inside you. You want nothing less than this. Your heart wants Lucifer— wishes this was Lucifer. But your treacherous body knows Lucifer could never have given you what you really wanted; that for someone like you, the pleasure you wanted could have only ever come like this, at the hands of a tall, leering stranger.

You don't even think before you move your legs from under him and hook them upwards around his waist to straddle him in turn; and you don't know why it feels like such a wanton gesture, why it makes you feel dirty in a way that's at once humiliating and more exciting. Maybe it's because it only reinforces your eagerness, your willingness to submit this way.

"Ready?" You think you can hear the anticipation in his voice too, and nod wordlessly. "Wonderful. Now, relax, and let me show you a great time."

And with that, _finally_ , his cock slides inside of you, and instantly, you can't help but gasp. Smoothly, slickly, just like his fingers but amplified tenfold, the _size_ of him, a strain that only stokes your arousal further; your entrance not so much stretching as dilating around the intrusion, your insides accommodating themselves to his bulk and size. Inch by inch he sinks in deeper, and with every inch you tremble and shiver, overwhelmed by it all, squeezing your eyes shut as you gasp out, and Belial swears under his breath in a voice that makes you moan right back.

It's not quite pleasurable in itself the way being directly touched is, but it's not bad. It's much like with his fingers, an odd, but fascinating sensation, having something so big so deep within you, to be penetrated in this way, just so much _more_ , so much that you can't think through the _size_ of it, through the feeling of being so _full_ in this way— and then, right then as the whisper of the thought comes, he pulls out just a little and _thrusts_ , and _then_ comes mind-blinding pleasure when he hits that spot inside you again that makes throw your head back and cry out wordlessly. Fingers fist and clench into the sheets by your side as he starts to thrust in back and forth, the contact between your bodies making loud wet noises that are somehow even lewder than the act itself, his breaths picking up, growing heavier; you feel the warm of it fanning against you, and open your eyes to see his face almost close enough for another kiss.

"I wanted to fuck you from behind, you know, doggy-style." he pants, smile stretching, teeth glinting, and it feels like something that's been lurking has come out— that sleazy, predatory leer is back again, and against all odds, your first sensation at the sight of it is comfort, _relief_. "But I— mm!— had to see the look on your face when I deflower you— _so_ worth it—" He thrusts in and cuts himself off with a low, pleased grunt. "You look _so_ good, Sandy— _feels_ good, too, squeezing me so tight— how's my cock, hm? How’s it feel, to be fucked?"

 _To be fucked, to be fucked—_ that's what's happening to you. That was what you so badly longed for, and dreamed of— and how does it feel? "G-good.”

But it's not enough. You wanted to be taken, to be used, violated, fucked out of your own mind until you forget the whole world, all that happened in your life that led you to this point. When you longed for it, for _being fucked_ , what you wanted was... "It's good, but..."

"Hm?" His thrusts slow down just a little, still not stopping, but still not relenting, his voice a little more even again. "Something about this not satisfying you? Do tell."

"D-don't—! Keep going." The loss of almost makes you panic. You scramble for the words for what you need, for what you want. "Just— more."

Belial tilts his head, eyebrows raised, smiling mock innocently. "More?"

"H-harder. I need it... I need it rougher. Much more than this." You swallow around the shame surfacing back again through the cloud of pleasure. "....Please."

And _again,_ something dark within his expression, a deep satisfaction that seems to go beyond mere pleasure. Without a word, he stops, but before you can complain or protest, he pulls you out— only to flip you on your stomach, dragging you to the edge of the bed. You hear the mattress squeak, the sound of him stepping off the bed into the floor— and then he's spreading your legs, grabbing you by the waist, wrapping his hands around it, raising your hips up to present your ass to him, and thrusts all the way back inside with one go.

 _There_ — yes, yes, this is it, _this_ was what you wanted, and when he starts to thrust with a cold, unforgiving brutality, it's even better, so much more beyond anything your imagination could have come with; the _real_ sensation of it, of powerful hands around your waist, of these hands' long fingers pressing painfully into your skin, the heartless way they hold you in place, the impersonal, unkind thrust of his hips that seems to reduce to something less human, less person than pleasure, and you cry out something incoherent in your delight.

A low chuckle rumbles from behind you, from him all the way through you, and then another grunt of pleasure. "Good?"

"Yes!" Every thrust, every wave of pleasure, seems to eat away at your shame, and it's intoxicating, not to care for how you sound or look, to be so overwhelmed with pleasure that you can't think of nothing else. "S-so good... please, Belial— more, harder, just like that, keep going—!"

"Hah... you finally said my name." The leering, lecherous tone seems to drop completely, and he says it in an odd voice you haven't heard from him yet, but it doesn't last: "Keep doing that." Every sentence breathless with arousal, punctuated by pauses from exertion, and yet somehow he still sounds calm, controlled: "Call my name. I want to hear... mm, every one of those cute little noises... everything that sweet voice of yours can do."

You obey him as you can, while you voice still lasts, crying out his name repeatedly, barely managing to control your own lips and tongue and think enough to form the words. Every thrust and hit right into your prostate is an overload on your senses, making your vision seem to go blank with pure light and pure darkness, either or both at once, makes you lose control over your own body, flail in place, grasp into the sheets, eyes rolling upwards, mouth opening and drool trickling down lewdly; unable to contain and handle the onslaught of such wonder, wonderful stimulation. You're vaguely aware that you're slurring, that your words grow garbled, that you're probably making the most undignified expression, and it only spurs you on further.

It feels that you could happily come just like this, from the assault of his cock on your insides alone, but Belial remembers your own untouched, throbbing-red cock earlier than you do, and lets go of the side of your waist to sneak a hand and wrap it around it— it's so big his fingers manage to slide and slick across it easily and stroke across the whole of it, quick and easy, and you move to lean to the side and put your leg up to give him better access; it has the effect of your head lolling to the side so that the two of you make eye contact again, of you seeing his flushed face, messy hair, so much more disheveled than earlier, his dark, hazy eyes, the smug smile gone and replaced with an expression as lost in pleasure as you feel.

The combination of it all, his expert fingers on your bare cock, the thrusts inside you, the buildup of pleasure and want and need that seems to have been festering for _years_ , the wait, the way he looks— all of it, together, sends you quickly over the edge, and you throw your head back and come with a hoarse, loud, shameless cry, all senses blanking and stopping in place to contain the pleasure. Vaguely, vaguely, you register at the back of your mind, the sound echoing, softer, lower, but still unmistakable, in his low, rumbling voice, and then you're being _filled_ up with wonderful, heavenly _warmth_ , that seems to stir and resonate with the heat of the pumping blood and beating heartbeat you feel through every limb.

He lets go, and you drop down to the bed in a sort of pleasant, fuzzy exhaustion, warm contentment and exhaustion leaving you soft and pliant. You're vaguely aware that your splattered the sheets with your own come, with his dripping out of you, that you should have probably asked him to use a condom or at least made sure he's clean while you're at it, and that he probably should have asked you the same, but the thoughts barely manage to register on any significant level. Instead you focus on the sound of your heartbeat, and his heavy panting and breathing from behind you, let him drag you a little further up the bed and settle your head on the pillow. You close your eyes and sink into the softness next to your head again, feel a little dip in the mattress as he settles beside you, and sigh, content to stay like this.

The two of you lie in bed like this, a comfortable silence in the afterglow. After some time, you hear Belial scrambling for something on the nightstand next to him, the sound of a lighter flicking open; you open an eye and watch as he does the incredibly cliche thing and lights up a cigarette. The smell of cigarette smoke and tobacco hits your senses, and you look up at him and wrinkle your nose with a sour expression, and grunt.

"... Do you _have_ to do this in bed? It smells like shit."

He snickers in amusement as he has to nearly half of what you say or do. "I'd go outside to do it, but I'm not feeling up to putting my clothes back on. 'Sides, you don't want me to leave you here alone, right?"

You again try not to think too much of the consideration. Him speaking of leaving you alone, though, is a painful reminder. "... I better get going anyway." Reluctantly, you sit up, begin to climb off the bed. "This was... um..."

What do you say to one night stands when you part with them? Somewhat stiffly, unable to look him in the eye, you say: "...That was good. Thank you."

Just as your feet hit the floor, his voice comes in, again, in an odd, unfamiliar voice: "Wait."

You stop in your tracks and turn around, trying to fight off the surge of hope shooting up in your heart. Belial meets your eye with an unfamiliar, unreadable expression. He pauses for a bit, as if considering the words, as if hesitating, before continuing on:

"Why don't you stay the night? Wherever you're heading back to can't be very comfy. Plenty of room in my bed, and enough food for us too."

…And it's damned tempting, to go back to that warm bed, to eat real, proper food like regular people do, not the feasts of the palace or the starved crumbs of your childhood. Tempting enough that in spite of your better judgments, in spite of knowing that you're best off not getting used to this kind of treatment and what's downright luxury compared to your current life, you don't answer him, and simply crawl back into the bed, climbing under the stained sheets.

Belial seems to be content with this. He finishes his smoke, puts the cigarette, and joins you. He still feels different— distant, somehow. You watch him; he lies on his back, arms crossed, staring somewhere into the horizon.

Another long silence, then:

"While you're at it, I have a suggestion, Sandy. Hear me out." He gives another one of those pauses that seem at once hesitation and simple thoughtfulness. "You need a place to lay low for a while, right?"

Your heart jumps all the way into your throat, and stops in place as it lands back into your chest, painful hope surging back into you again. Is he—

"I can't imagine the life of a convict is very easy. The cops won't come looking for you here. If they do, I can take care of it."

 _Take care_ of it? If it's what you think it is, that would explain quite a bit. And it would mean he's at least reliable. And yet, and yet... "You want to help shelter an escaped convict?" You narrow your eyes. "Why would you? What do _you_ get out of this?"

"Sex with you, of course. Assuming you'd want to, but given my performance just now, I expect you'd be up for more." You sigh. Of course. "I bet there's a lot of things you'd like to try, too. I can take responsibility, you know— I'm not heartless enough to take your precious virginity and then abandon you right afterwards. Plus, what's the point of letting you run off without getting to hear you call me Daddy even once?"

The way he keeps going back and forth between sleazy and considerate— he's not wrong that you'd be up for more. More than that, the thought of staying with a man like _that_ , getting to have more of all this, potentially every day... it's heaven, compared to what awaits you back in your regular life. You search for every reason to tell him no, and all you can really find is _what will happen when he gets tired of you, throw you back into the streets? What will happen when you disappoint him, when you're not good enough, when you this ends, when you have to go back, just like with—_

"Well, give it some thought. Sleep on it a little. No rush." Belial interrupts your train of thought with a shrug. "For now, I think we could both use a little rest."

You watch him as he closes his eyes and settles into the bed, as his breathing subsides, becoming slow, as his whole body relaxes, his expression and body language shifting within sleep and almost transforming him; and follow him to sleep, wondering if what you've really stumbled upon was something much more simple than what you had initially thought: a man as lonely as you.


End file.
